


The Tea

by d06



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Assassin's Creed II, Bleeding Effect, Gen, Identity Issues, The Animus (Assassin's Creed), causes lots of problems for des, dancing around important subjects, ezio's presence is only implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:21:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26529667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d06/pseuds/d06
Summary: Desmond's been craving tea, lately. . . But he's not sure why.(It's not him who's been craving tea.)Takes place during AC II.
Relationships: None
Comments: 5
Kudos: 60





	The Tea

“Hey, Shaun?” Desmond’s bed head poked into the kitchen doorway.

 _He’s up early,_ Shaun thinks. The sweater-clad brit doesn’t usually see their local crazy (the accuracy of that description is neither here nor there) before he’d at least begun his morning tea and small breakfast. The kettle didn’t even have water in it yet.

Regardless of that oddity, Desmond had addressed him. He offers a noncommittal, although acknowledging “Hm?” Nobody ever said his eloquent speech faltered when he was drowsy.

The other man stays quiet for half a second, then launches into the (unfathomably tiny) room with Shaun. He can feel something hovering around his shoulder. 

Perhaps, later in the day, he would have ignored Desmond. However, he’s been awake for far too long with far too little caffeine. “Desmond,” the single word comes out a few parts exhaustion and a significant part exasperation.

Shaun turns, and the accused holds his ground, innocently. Ridiculous. 

“What is it?” He caves, the irritation dulled by his drowsy state. It is too early for this.

An unsure voice emerges. “Can I have some of your tea?”

The overworked man blinks. He blinks again. What? “I thought you didn’t like tea?” Considering the young assassin was a bartender, he had given Desmond tea in the past, expecting him to like it. However, he found there was one reaction to them all: Disgust. (Even the frilly fruit ones that resembled mixed drinks!)

A quiet pressure forms in the air, “I’ve been craving it.” he shrugs and looks away. “It couldn’t hurt, right? Maybe it’ll relax me.”

Relax him from all the nightmares, from all the stress, from the fact that his own unlived life is slowly escaping his grasp, he knows. Shaun resigns, and hands him the jar of leaves. 

Most of the sympathy from a few seconds prior is lost to Miles’ blank look, “Have you ever brewed tea before?” 

“Isn’t it usually in bags?” In other words, no. Personally, he preferred loose leaf (even if bagged was okay), but at least Desmond wasn’t expecting that disgusting powdered tea.

The historian goes through the process slow enough that his company can comprehend it, but no pause lasts longer than it takes to explain what he’s doing. Desmond scoffs at the explanation of how to boil water, but otherwise listens with relative attentiveness. He’s almost impressed.

“Simply pour the water from the kettle into your cup,” he does as such, “And it’s done, tea.” One of the two cups transfers to his acquaintence’s hand. That wasn’t as much of an ordeal as he imagined.

“You usually wait a few minutes before drinking it so that the tea can steep, but-”

The man in front of him is violently hacking. He goes to rush behind him and hit his back, but a hand stops him. 

Desmond is near bent over, one fist pounding his chest and the other gripping his cup in a vice.  
Through the rasps, Shaun barely makes out “That- cough - is fucking _disgusting_.” The man wipes his mouth on his sleeve.

Before he can spill his drink, the historian snaps it away and pounds it into the counter. “Why’d you ask to try it, _then?_ ” Absolutely appalling. “Were you looking for a laugh?”

“Not-” He coughs again, catching his breath after a few seconds, “Am I _laughing_ , Shaun?” 

Shaun’s eyes bore into the shaking man’s chest, waiting until his shoulders had steadied enough to gift him a questioning (if still annoyed) glare. 

“I just. . . thought I would like it.” Desmond’s eyes shift anxiously and the Brit finds his arms losing their tension, even if just slightly.

“You’ve tried it before though. Didn’t you know that you would hate it?” 

“Uh--” The Animus’ victim stumbles, lost for words. “I guess I just forgot.”

Suspicion crowds Shaun’s gaze, but he allows the excuse. “Mhmm. Just don’t waste my tea again, or you’ll be the one going out to buy more.” 

“Got it.” 

With haste, Hastings exits the room, leaving his fellow assassin alone. Shaun has more important things to do than figure out whatever it was Desmond was dodging.

The jar of tea leaves sit on the counter, halfway empty, beside his cup of dirty water. _Huh,_ the jumbled mess of memories thinks to himself.

He remembered plenty how he felt when he drank tea the last time. The little bits catching in his throat like orange juice with particularly large pulp, creating an uncomfortably thick texture. There was a specific aspect of late bitterness which somehow sucked all moisture from his tongue even as water draped over it. Overall, he hated it. Tea sucked.

Still, to say that he’d been “craving it” wasn’t a lie. Somehow the visual of tea accompanied itself with the sweet but subtle taste of fond nostalgia, and there was a hint of a fluffy, sugary dessert framing it. Clearly, some unknown wire in his brain crossed with another in a distinctly incorrect way.

_Then why. . ._

“Do I still want tea?” Words escaped his sore throat without his consent.

He stares at the jar as though it could confess its crimes and explain why it enchants him to the point that there’s this weird feeling of something missing invading his chest. It doesn’t, but as he examines the writing on the jar, a thought hits him.

He jerks his head back, groaning and pressing his palms to his face. “Of course!”

“I’m Italian, this tea is English! I’m craving _Italian_ tea!” The cold counter freezes his hands as he slams them onto it in realization. He smiles in triumph, but it melts off his face barely a moment later.

The rest of him freezes at the second realization.

“Merda.” He shakes his head, “I mean-- shit.”

. . . 

“ _Shit._ ” The cuss seethes from his mouth, burning his tongue. His body crumples in on itself and soon he is eye to eye with the metal counter.

He takes the moment to stare into nothing. This, _again?_ This wasn’t the bleeding effect he was used to, there were no hallucinations or muscle memory, it was just. . . He enjoyed tea with his dessert, and he could recall having it after every meal. It was something he’d lost, as their meals now didn’t even resemble anything that might be normal enough to have dessert. 

_Ezio_ enjoyed tea with his dessert. 

“Y’know,” a british accent cuts his thoughts and he flings his body around, “There’s no such thing as _‘Italian tea.’_ There is Italian- _styled_ tea, but most tea in Italy is imported from us.”

“You heard that?” The voice that comes out is too strained and cracky to be his own.

“You yelled pretty loud. Surprised Rebecca and Lucy didn’t hear you.” Desmond exhales at that.

Shaun doesn’t respond for a suffocatingly long minute, simply eying him up and down, as though evaluating him. The man in a white hoodie is about to break the silence out of sheer tension when the Brit says, “Are you okay?”

_What? “Am I okay?”_

“Well, at least I know you’re not _deaf,_ ” The historian shifts and crosses his arms, “But, yes. I’m asking if you’re okay.” He hesitates. “You are _Desmond,_ right?”

“Yea.” The man in question’s shoulders scrunch up and he can feel his chin touching his neck.

“Will you be able to go into the Animus today?”

Irritation flashes behind his eyes and suddenly his back is straight. “Do I have a _choice?_ ”

Shaun sighs, “If you’re asking that, then you’re fine.” The man is already turning around, “Come out whenever you’re ready.”

Desmond watches him leave with a cautious eye, allowing himself to breath only once he’s gone. 

He pours his cup of so-called “tea” down the drain, then walks to the main room and sits next to Rebecca, blankly staring as she covers his eyes with glass and pricks his arm. _Not a day goes by,_ he thinks as the streets of Venice manifest before him, the city waiting for Ezio Auditore to recklessly swing from its flag poles and dump the next corrupt government official into its deep, putrid canels, eager to see that modern-day assassino indulging in the beautiful Venezia. _Not one._

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Thanks for reading this. I know it's rather short, but I wrote it in 2019 and never came back to making it longer, so I went ahead and posted it. My favorite type of AC fic focuses on Desmond dealing with the Bleeding Effect in little ways (time travel ones are good too, obvi), let me know if you have any recs! I always struggle to find ones like this, so I wrote one.  
> I'd love to hear yall's thoughts! What do you think? Any criticisms? what does it m e a n  
> gimmie your responses pls <3 I really want to hear them!
> 
> EDIT: I forgot to mention, Italians did actually drink tea in the 1400~1500s! I did "extensive research" (a google search) and they didn't really drink it often, and usually only with dessert.


End file.
